


The Butterfly Effect

by HermitLibrary_Archivist



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Angst, Blake POV, M/M, Poetry, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-26
Updated: 2008-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-21 06:05:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4817909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermitLibrary_Archivist/pseuds/HermitLibrary_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>by Snowgrouse</p>
<p>Short poem summarising Blake and Avon's relationship through Blake's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Butterfly Effect

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Judith and Aralias, the archivists: This story was originally archived at [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Hermit_Library), which was closed due to maintenance costs and lack of time. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2015. We posted announcements about the move and emailed authors as we imported, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Hermit.org Blake's 7 Library collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hermitlibrary/profile). 
> 
> This work has been backdated to 26th of May 2008, which is the last date the Hermit.org archive was updated, not the date this fic was written. In some cases, fics can be dated more precisely by searching for the zine they were originally published in on [Fanlore](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Main_Page).

That's how it began. One flutter of Avon's lashes, quickly cast down to brush against high cheeks, revealing his true nature. Then a dark glance, daring him, mocking him.

A flick of a hand, a sway of hip, the whisper of a door opening.

For a while, for a moment or two, he could feel it, the moth's wing sweep against his own cheek as he filled Avon, kept him happy, made him smile for a long, long night.

Some moths fed on tears, he remembered, seeing the death's head, and he wanted to rip the wings off Sarkoff's butterflies.

And yet at night, the whisper and the hum was there again, the perversity in Avon's eyes: a plea, a cry, to be raw and bleeding, to be marked.

In the end, he was the one stealing the tears; forcing them out of him just so he'd know Avon could still feel, teardrop for come-drop, Avon's mouth wet and shining.

He'd known it was the last time when Avon clung to him, words of hate on his lips but his eyes and arse yielding, his nails writing farewell letters on his back.

He'd become old, Avon had become old. He wasn't surprised when Avon demanded his life--after all, there was nothing more to give. He saw Avon's lashes fly up again, now in horror, in realisation.

It all ended with those lashes cast down again, in sorrow, having sown bullets where love had sought to grow.

 


End file.
